His Queen's Courtship
by redrosemary
Summary: Alistair wanted to marry Lucilla Cousland to ensure that the stability that they had worked for would endure. But ambitious Lucilla's heart was with another, so would she choose her beloved Leliana or her beloved Ferelden?
1. Eamon

A/N: I've edited the first four chapters of this fic. Thanks a bunch to **SteveGarbage** for giving amazing concrit!

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"Think of it, Majesty," the grey-haired adviser said. He placed a box in front of Alistair, who opened it and saw a diamond ring.

Arl Eamon wanted him to marry Lucilla Cousland, recently restored to her birthright as Teyrna of Highever. She was a strong woman, as lovely as she was dutiful—the only reason, Alistair believed, why Ferelden stood a chance against the Blight.

But the young King laughed inwardly, because he suspected that Eamon wanted Lucilla as Queen to evade the wrath of Anora. It was no secret that the old arl disdained Anora's lack of noble blood—one of the man's fundamental faults—daring even to tell Cailan to divorce Anora in favor of the Orlesian empress. Alistair also suspected that Eamon had already worked out a deal with aristocratic Lucilla to secure his position as Arl of Redcliffe and an adviser to the throne.

Not that Lucilla was unloved across the country: quite the contrary. She was highly esteemed throughout the land, and not just because of her lofty name. She ended the civil war in Orzammar, restored order to the Circle, even secured the allegiance of the elusive Dalish. She had friends in high and low places: arls, banns, innkeepers, travelling merchants. She had a way with people, and she used that to ensure that her parents' legacy in Highever, which had been prosperous before Howe's invasion, was extended to the rest of Ferelden.

"Teyrna Lucilla is already educated and trained to lead," Eamon explained. "You are partners _now_ , and see what you have done together for Ferelden. Both of you have united us and conjured up an army from nowhere, dedicated to eradicating the Blight. You have restored order to places no noble would even have imagined aiding. Imagine _marrying_ her, bound to you and the country forever. With your moral compass and her dedication to duty and justice, the Cousland name united to the Theirin—"

"And the Mac Tirs have not served Ferelden faithfully as any other _noble_ name out there?" Alistair asked impatiently. "They drove the Orlesians out and ensured Fereldan sovereignty over Fereldan soil."

"I do not need to remind Your Majesty what the Mac Tir patriarch has done. Good day, Sire," Eamon replied coldly, as he bowed and left.

Alistair would never have dared to pull such a stunt with Lucilla, but he had enough of Eamon's incessant rhetoric about marriage. He had yet to be crowned, the Blight was at their doorstep, and royal weddings were at the man's mind?

He looked around the rich study. Shelves lined with books and tapestries of mabari fighting alongside the heroes of the Rebellion decorated the walls. Lucilla would probably like a tome or two from here, and he made a mental note to find her later. But right now, he wanted to find Eamon's stash of whiskey. After several minutes, however, he had to concede that the arl had kept none—or that Oghren had filched it.

Lucilla believed in him so much that she gave him the crown, with the promise that she would stand by him always. When he told her of his lineage early in their journey, she had laughed and said, "So you're not just a bastard, but a royal bastard?" He thought no more of it when she started talking about the rudiments of politics, trade, taxation and the administration of lands. He found that he enjoyed listening to her explain the intricate and fragile balance among the nobles, freeholders, farmsteads, knights and soldiers, merchants and mercenaries, even the Chantry. She did it so jovially, so casually, as if an older sister telling a folk-tale to her younger brother—or, more to the point, how he would have imagined her teaching her nephew, had fate been kinder.

It was only after all the Warden treaties have been secured and Eamon revived that Alistair realized Lucilla had been grooming him to be King.

Eamon was an astute man who knew, or guessed, that Lucilla was more than a simple Warden or even a frivolous noblewoman. And Alistair suspected that it was no secret to his sort-of uncle that he loved Lucilla greatly.

Sadly, that love was not reciprocated. Alistair had once given Lucilla a rose and declared his intention to woo her, only for her to accept it sadly, and, with great care, told him that she loved him too—as a friend, even as family, but never a lover. Her heart belonged to someone else, she had said. He guessed that the bard had offered her a sanctuary from her unspoken woes, or a swashbuckling romance full of court intrigues and finely dressed players that had reminded her of her old life. He never really had the courage, or the heart, to delve further.

So he had to content himself with loving her from a distance and taking what he could. He eagerly awaited her invitation to spar, to discuss strategies and local affairs, even to simply clean their blades and armor together. He relished that he alone shared with Lucilla the bonds of being a Grey Warden, that it was he, and not Leliana, who could comfort her when the Archdemon or the ghosts of Castle Cousland haunted her dreams.

As Alistair pondered on the exquisite details of the study, he heard Lucilla's voice in his head, telling him he should apologize to Eamon—the man was one of his two trusted advisers, after all. It was the sensible thing to do.

He found Eamon in a balcony overlooking the estate's garden.

"I must apologize for my behavior, my lord," Alistair said softly. "It was unbecoming, for everything you, me and Lucilla have suffered."

Eamon accepted his apology with a pat on the shoulder. "It's all right, my boy. I have imagined Connor saying worse things if I arranged his marriage with someone he does not like. But believe me, I would much rather have Connor marry for love."

Eamon smiled sadly. Both men knew that Connor was now unlikely to marry, or to find love.

"You love Arlessa Isolde," Alistair said. It was not a question.

"The Maker graced my life far more than I deserve," Eamon stated. "I am one of the very few nobles who married for love."

The old man looked out at his garden. "King Maric left me a great duty, you know. He made me swear to raise you, far away from court. He wanted you to be comfortable and happy. Until I married Isolde I did just that and more—but I must now beg you for forgiveness, if I had put her above my oath to the late King and your happiness."

As a child, Alistair had always seen Isolde as a cruel woman. She had a shrill voice that he associated with water demons, and she often used it to command her servants to deny him meals for some imagined slight. Looking back, all Alistair could imagine was his fault was the fact that he had been born: Isolde desperately wanted her own child, and was long denied this. She was deeply jealous of the way Eamon had treated him, not as an orphaned bastard, but as a noble ward. _Which you are, technically_ , he imagined Lucilla's stern voice saying.

Alistair's glance fell on a red rosebush. "You don't need to, Eamon. It's been a long time. I met Duncan and the Wardens. And Lucilla, the light amidst all this darkness."

He fidgeted. Had he said too much? Maker damn that red rosebush for reminding him of her again.

With alacrity he turned the discussion elsewhere. "Did my father love your sister, Eamon?"

"Rowan loved Maric as a Queen should," Eamon replied prudently. "She had fought for this country alongside her handsome King, whom she was very fond of. Your father adored her too, in his own way. He had ensured her happiness, and lost all thirst for life when she passed away so young."

Alistair tried to understand. He wasn't Rowan's son, after all, even as he was Maric's. To be fair, he knew that he was born after the Queen's death—but he decided against riling Eamon up again.

Lucilla had told him of King Maric and Queen Rowan's deeds during the Occupation, and, to his great annoyance, she did not downgrade Loghain's role. This was the one time he did not desire her little history lessons, for he knew it well. After he was told that he was the King's bastard, he had tried to read about the man who sired him: an effective strategist, a popular king, a descendant of the Silver Knight, the Savior of Ferelden. A distant figure up a pedestal, so great and magnificent, he could not bother himself with a lowborn bastard. But Lucilla had bitterly added that the only reason her father chose not to accept the throne after Maric's disappearance was because Bryce had respected the Theirin line a little _too_ greatly.

"Most kings and nobles cannot afford to marry the ones they love," Eamon explained. "The few ones who did, like me and Isolde, pay a great price. Isolde has never had a friend here in Ferelden, other than Teagan and myself. I know that she is looked at with disdain by nobles and commoners alike. She was also disowned by her family and cut off from her friends in Orlais after our marriage. And if Queen Rowan weren't my sister, I would have been found guilty of treason just for loving her."

"But the price is worth it, I'm sure," Alistair commented. "You both seem happy with each other."

The old man smiled and nodded. "You have grown into such a fine young man. May I ask, do you love Lucilla? Why do you resist the match so much?"

"I do love her," Alistair answered. He decided to be truthful in this, at least.

"Have you told her how you feel?" Eamon inquired sincerely. "I know I've caused you great pain out of duty for Maric and my Isolde's frivolity. But when Lucilla arrived, I thought I had finally seen a way to beg your forgiveness, ensure the last Theirin's happiness, and not compromise the country."

"I've told her, once," Alistair admitted. "She let me down gently. Her heart is with another."

Alistair's mood was deteriorating, but he nevertheless told Eamon, "I could not ask Leliana to make such a sacrifice, even assuming that Lucilla is willing. They are both good women, and they deserve their joy in this bleak, ugly world."

Eamon stood, placing a comforting hand on Alistair's shoulder. He seemed almost fatherly A year ago, a lifetime ago, Alistair would have given anything for this moment. "Perhaps you do not need to divide them," he said. "Rowan knew that."


	2. Oghren

Alistair could really use a drink right now, and if he couldn't find some in Eamon's estate, he would have to ask Oghren to share his questionable brew. He didn't feel like going out on a long trek to _The Gnawed Noble_ and be pestered with questions, when he had a burning one in his mind.

He found the Dwarf in the cellar, predictably drinking his fill from the generous Arl's casks and kegs. So much for small victories, he thought. Well, he could always trust Eamon's fine taste in wines and ales, being married to an Orlesian and all.

He also hoped that Eamon's staff would forgive them for being rowdy guests: the cellar was a mess. Spilled ale, empty tankards, and bits of meat and bone were scattered beside Oghren, who was squatting on the floor.

"Heh-heh," Oghren greeted him, the yellow liquid trickling down his fiery beard. "Your Arl has been so generous with his fine stuff."

"Least he can do for us, Oghren," Alistair said kindly, trying to mask his disgust. He wondered if Lucilla was rubbing off on him—she was always so organized, so neat and proper.

 _Ah, Luce, why can't you leave my mind?_

Alistair blinked hard and reminded himself that he was here on business, and for all Oghren's habits he still counted the dwarf as a trusted friend.

At least the stench of alcohol was not as bad as when they were in camp.

The dwarf continued his sloppy drinking and belched loudly. Alistair began to doubt if this was even a remotely good idea, but Oghren produced a large and thankfully clean-looking tankard for him.

"Drink," Oghren commanded. "And talk. No one comes and drinks with Oghren unless they're desperate."

Alistair accepted gratefully, and took a sip. "You're the only one I can talk to about this, Oghren." A pause. "I wanted to ask… about Branka."

"Branka!" Oghren exclaimed. He produced bottles from only the Maker knew where. "This calls for something to rip our innards! Good thing Boss Lucy knows her spirits. Choose: Chasind, backcountry, Tevinter, or mysterious forest?"

"Mysterious forest," Alistair mumbled. He had suddenly thought of her again, laughing, as she rarely did, at the ancient oak which spoke in rhymes. The world was full of mysteries, Wynne had remarked, and Alistair had concurred with the old mage. At last, stern Lucilla had finally found something funny and actually laughed at it.

"A sipping whiskey if you value your innards, old boy, heh." He poured some for them in some of Eamon's fancy glasses, the tankards disregarded. "Anything in particular about that bunch of crazy?"

"Merely, why you agreed to marry Branka," Alistair said, and took a swig. He remembered Lucilla retrieving whatever this was from an ancient sarcophagus, and wondered again if any of _this_ was a good idea.

"I was young and foolish, she was younger and more foolish," Oghren grumbled, slurring the last word. "Dowry, negotiations, caste, all that nugshit." He raised an eyebrow. "Why? Your Arl Eamon arranging marriage with some noble tart yet?"

"With Lucilla," Alistair admitted, taking another swig and feeling his throat burn.

"Now that's _not_ a noble tart!" Oghren bawled. "You're lucky to have Boss around, you know. Good head on her shoulders. Total opposite of Branka. She was a real firebrand in the sheets, but a few columns short of a hall, if you know what I mean."

Alistair observed the dwarf's demeanor. Oghren sobered up rather quickly, but he looked infinitely sadder and older. He wiped his beard and straightened up.

"I wasn't always this mad asschabs nug-humper drunk that you see now, boy," Oghren said clearly. "I was Oghren of House Kondrat, warrior caste, a step away from being noble, greatly renowned and respected. Very eligible, mind you! I had the pick of the litter. And I chose _her_ , that brilliant pretty smith, and boy was she fluttered and flattered and elated. It wasn't a long courtship, but it was passionate and fiery. Her parents were so happy too, because she'd be marrying up, not down. Everybody thought we were quite the match.

"And I was happy too, for a while. Happy wife, happy life, eh? But she wasn't happy for long. She was often at her anvil, and I understood that, or I thought I did. She tried to teach me smith-ey things. Why one forge is better for one thing but not for the other. She smiled and we humped everywhere—"

"You can, uh, omit those," Alistair interjected.

"Ach, you sodding chaste man. Anyway, I learned a little bit about trinkets and smithing and forging. I made her a little something on our anniversary," he said, and showed him his amulet.

"She called it _Smith's Heart,"_ Oghren continued, lovingly stroking the steel pendant shaped like a fist. "I enchanted it, very lightly, and she told me I'm hopeless as a smith. She never took it off, or at least I thought that, until Boss found it in the Deep Roads."

Alistair was glad that Oghren couldn't read his thoughts, which had strayed to Lucilla once again. He remembered his elation when Lucilla bought him a heavily enchanted ring just before entering the Deep Roads. "For your protection," she had said. He wasn't sure if it was the magic, or his morale lifted high, but he had felt stronger whenever he wore that ring. He had even teased her to slip it in his finger herself. She scowled—in jest, perhaps?—as she acquiesced.

Oghren belched again, and broke Alistair from his reverie.

"What changed, Oghren?" the king asked. "You make it sound like you were happy together, despite the arranged marriage business."

"We both did," Oghren answered, his voice becoming unstable. "People change, old boy, never doubt that. She loved me once, I know, as far as I think she can love anyone. But being Paragon messed her mind. Also, I didn't have lady bits. She coulda told me that, and I would have understood and taken a concubine for her, but instead she had to leave me!"

Oghren exploded in a teary, drunken mess. Alistair wasn't so sure what to do, so he let the dwarf sob. It wasn't the first time anyway, but he hoped that the dwarf would not find the need to kill or break something right now. That was how he usually dealt with the memory of his lost ex-wife.

Maker, Alistair should have remembered that Branka was a sore topic for Oghren. He thought about Branka's journal in the Deep Roads, how his voice quaked with mixed joy, hope and despair. He regretted not joining Lucilla when she joined the dwarf for an ale, not because he was fond of drinking.

He just realized what he and Oghren had something in common: unreturned love, for women who were their wives, or were destined to be their wives at some point. Only that Oghren had it much worse.

"Are you all right?" Alistair asked after Oghren collected himself.

"Ach, that miserable deep stalker of a wife," he grumbled, and took a swig. "It wasn't because our marriage was arranged. Lots of people have arranged marriages, and all dwarves do. We learn to live with it, eventually. But she was sodding out of her mind, led our House to their deaths and worse. So I became this purposeless disgraced warrior, this sodding sorry excuse of a thunder-humper no longer welcome in my non-existent House."

"You're actually scaring me, Oghren," Alistair said.

"Don't be such a sodding elf maiden waiting to be rescued!" Oghren exclaimed, spit flying in several directions."Haven't you learned from me? Take charge in your life. If you must marry, and I suppose you royal prats _have_ to, marry someone you can trust, someone who won't leave you, someone you could talk to and talks to you, with her feet firm on the ground, and not someone you merely enjoy rutting with."

"Even if she loves someone else?"

"Love changes. People change, haven't you been listening?" Oghren sputtered. He took another generous swig and belched. "If you really insist on an old ball and chain, make sure it's someone who has a good sensible practical mind to never leave you, unless you give her reason to. And don't sodding give her any reason to."

"A marriage of convenience," Alistair remarked. It was uncanny, how Oghren and Eamon had agreed, independently but simultaneously, about Lucilla.

"Probably," Oghren said and winked. Or attempted to, as his eyes were heavy from too much drinking. "She might not love you _now_ , but she may grow fond of you later. Sometimes people who sign up for marriage end up sodding loving each other. Probably because they talk to each other, and that way they learn each other's problems and resolve them together for their common benefit."

"I've never thought of it that way," Alistair commented.

Oghren stared him in the face. "You know that Boss's interests align with yours. She wants what's best for your sodding country. And if that means she has to marry you, I think she'll take that deal. Don't you see that she's a rare breed? And don't worry, she ain't a hall short of columns. She has too many columns. Just make sure you talk and listen to each other."

"But what about Leliana?" Alistair asked. "You know about that."

Oghren gave a lascivious chuckle. "Aye, I do indeed. Beautiful sodding women, like two pairs of scissors, mmmm…"

"I'd have you know that you're talking about the Teyrna of Highever and a Chantry sister with the King of Ferelden," Alistair said strongly. He tried not to imagine the love of his life in the arms of another, but it was too late: his heart was stung again as he remembered seeing Lucilla and Leliana by the campfire.

Many nights he had lain alone in his cold tent, hearing the love of his life pleasured by another. He didn't _want_ to imagine the way their nimble fingers touched each other's secret valleys and hills, but the iron rod between his legs dictated otherwise. He sometimes had a mind to shout at them and tell them to be more discreet, but his will always failed him. And so he stroked himself, torn between the pleasure and shame of imagining Lucilla begging for his touch, moaning his name instead of Leliana's...

"They ain't behaving like some coy noblewoman and shy priestess," Oghren retorted. "Fine, Your Sodding Majesty. If you want my advice, here it is: if you must marry the Boss, you take her entirely, not just the stuff you like. She ain't a cheap whore for one night. She's _Boss Lucy_ , who's accomplished so much stuff that she'd be a Paragon if she were a Dwarf. You know that."

Alistair smiled. "I never thought you were wise, Oghren."

"Don't tell the others," Oghren warned. "I have a sodding reputation to keep."

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A/N: Beta'd by the amazing **SteveGarbage**. Check out his work!


	3. Leliana

"I knew this day would come."

Leliana was a lot of things, but _maudlin_ and _clingy_ were not one of them. She was practical but faithful, wily but considerate, kind but dangerous. A contradiction, Alistair had to admit.

Pretty, too, with her flaming hair and fair skin, but his Lucilla was more beautiful, Alistair thought. Leliana, even in frilly Orlesian gowns that she talked about or the austere but finely tailored robes of the Chantry, could never hold a flame to Lucilla's regal charm, the way she looked stately even in chafed leathers, carefully cleaned old chainmail, or the threadbare tunic and breeches she wore in camp.

The Orlesian woman insisted on having tea and biscuits in one of the Arl's morning rooms. The sun's light diffused so beautifully, and had Alistair been alone here, he would have taken in the serenity of the place. Maybe even read a tome on governance, or discuss what he had learned with Lucilla. But he wasn't here to study, or to appreciate beauty where it could be found, or even think about Lucilla. He was here to secure something.

Leliana was adamant that she would not talk to Alistair without food, but the King suspected that she was trying to compose herself before speaking. Her brows were knitted together, he could almost hear her mind whizzing.

It took an eternity for the tea to arrive. Alistair poured some for them and gently dismissed the servant who brought the tray.

"Sugar?" he asked her kindly, but Leliana shook her head, a scowl on her pretty face.

"Lucilla and her ambitions," Leliana scoffed. "Are you here for my permission? Demand that I stay away from your Queen?"

Her voice was soft but steady, not shrill as he had anticipated. Thank the Maker for small mercies.

"I'm here to ask you if you'll be all right with me, as King, officially wooing the Teyrna of Highever," Alistair said calmly. "She is not Queen, not yet, at least. And... we both know where her heart lies."

"As if _your_ heart is elsewhere," Leliana glowered. "Why do you need my permission, again?"

"It's not permission, per se," Alistair said, trying to evade the former spy's questioning glare. "I just wanted to know if you'll be all right to Lucilla… the Teyrna… marrying me, as King. I assure you that I have no pretensions of ever winning her heart, which is yours. But marriage entails, you know, appearances and…"

"Sex, right," Leliana finished his sentence even as he blushed. She knew he was lying. She must be cautious, as Lucilla was not exactly known for her chastity. "It's the first time she slept with someone other than me."

The two recalled a particularly drunken night in _The Pearl_ where Lucilla had succumbed to a Rivaini pirate's charms and convinced Alistair and Leliana to join their orgy. Lucilla had invited Zevran too, but for some reason, the elf declined. Maybe it was because Zevran had recognized his feelings, and decided to back off before things turned ugly.

Alistair smiled at the memory, and it was only then that Leliana realized that the man was still in love with Lucilla, despite her initial rejection of him. That night with Isabela, three voluptuous women had lavished attention on him, but he only had eyes for Lucilla.

 _Stupid, stupid!_ Leliana chastised herself for only thinking of pleasure at that time. She could have nipped the problem at the bud had she kept her wits about her. But could she really have? She offered Lucilla a chance to escape their cruel past, travel the world as seekers of beauty and grace.

But Leliana had always known that Lucilla ultimately wanted to be Queen—the Cousland woman had been trained to rule from the moment she was born. And Lucilla lived up to her potential, what with building an army from nothing in order to defeat the Blight and uniting the country she had loved in the process.

Leliana was utterly aware of how her lover had taken pains in order to restore order to the Circle of Magi, end Orzammar's civil war, and secure the allegiance with the elusive Dalish without butchering sentient werewolves. True, Lucilla had sometimes—honestly, it's _almost always_ —resorted to violence, lies and blackmail when she did not get her way, but even one as soft-hearted as Leliana admitted that Lucilla's ways often proved to be for the benefit of the many.

She also wanted to consider Alistair a friend as well. Here was a man whose moral compass never failed, intent on bringing justice to his people. A King who had seen the plight of his subjects and commiserated with them, protected them, even bled for them. If there was one truly honorable man, Leliana was sure it was Alistair, and not the painted lords of her own country, or the warring nobles of Ferelden, whose concept of honor was limited to high birth only.

In another place, another life, the bard would not have hesitated to plunge a secret dagger into the King's heart. But not here, and not now: she knew what was at stake, and Lucilla would never forgive her.

She closed her eyes and sighed, not yet ready to admit defeat, but not wanting to sound bitter either. Against Alistair the man, she had the upper hand, but against Lucilla's duty and birthright, she was not sure.

"Almost all noble marriages are for convenience, status, security and alliances," she told him warily. "I would be a great fool indeed to deny _my_ noble Lucilla her birthright, to condemn her for what she is, or to let all her labors go to waste. Because we both know that without her, your throne would ever be surrounded by vultures, to the detriment of this flaming Ferelden."

Leliana fought back her tears, finally admitting to herself that Lucilla held her duty dearer than her, and trying not to think about Alistair stealing Lucilla's affections. "But I would not have you send me away, like a shameful lover in the dark, Alistair. I will come and go as I please, or as she pleases."

She tried not to think of her beloved Lucilla ever sending her away or grow tired of her. She knew of Lucilla's appetites, and though she doubted that the young king could satisfy her, she feared that Lucilla might finally reconcile duty with love and ultimately bid her adieu.

Alistair was quick to answer. "Of course. Your private lives are your own, and the only thing I would ever ask of you both is discretion. You're… Orlesian."

"Somewhat true," Leliana admitted. "My mother was Fereldan, but I am not sure about my father. Anyhow, I see that you are learning how to play this game."

"I do not want to play games. I do what is best for my people," he declared resolutely. He would not have his countrymen survive the Blight only to find their home a barren wasteland lost to civil wars. He would rebuild their nation, Maker willing, with Lucilla's help. Like Leliana, he was sure Lucilla would not be idle, nor find it in her heart to forsake their people.

Marjolaine was fickle and evil, Leliana thought, putting her intrigues and lust for power above anything, even her. Was Lucilla the same? Lucilla would never hesitate to lie, steal, or kill if she thought it suited her purpose. But Lucilla's purposes were never petty. Even her revenge against the man who had slaughtered her family was just and borne out of duty to her House and country.

Leliana played with her teacup for a long while before brightening up. Her pitch was raised an octave, Alistair noted. "All right then, King Alistair. I suppose I could agree to being the Queen's mistress, if Lucilla decides to be Queen. I've long accepted that she's married to her duty anyway. But remember, King or no, her heart is **mine**."

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A/N: Thanks to **SteveGarbage** for his concrit!


	4. Lucilla

"So apparently, my beautiful Leliana has given away my hand in marriage."

The Teyrna of Highever had one of the more lavish bedrooms in the estate. Near the enormous window offering a rather nice moonlit vista of Denerim was her four-poster bed, and in front of the roaring fire was a divan. On the other end of the room was an ornate table with two chairs, where she preferred to have her morning and evening tea, and where Alistair now poured wine for the two of them. He was grateful for following Oghren's advice "to lighten up the mood."

Lucilla was clad in an elegant lace nightgown that more than hinted at her curves. For the briefest while, Alistair feasted at the sight of her creamy bosom beneath the gossamer dark blue fabric. She had just come out of her bath, and smelled of lavender and vanilla. Her long dark hair, which she normally wore braided and coiled at her nape, was damp and tucked in one ear. But her brown eyes were cold, her jaw clenched, her lips pursed into a thin line.

She was so beautiful, and by the Maker, also so daunting. He was a fool for not realizing that even as Lucilla Cousland was his greatest friend and ally, she was also a very dangerous enemy. She had refused to see him since the Landsmeet, until he invoked his royal title and reminded her that the King of Ferelden outranked the Teyrna of Highever. She had grimaced, bade him sit across her at the table, and enigmatically remarked that he was finally learning.

Alistair hoped that Lucilla did not notice his trembling legs as he slid a lacquer box to her. Thankfully, she didn't: her eyes widened as she beheld a star sapphire the size of a quail's egg and smaller diamonds, set in a thick, elaborate necklace of filigreed gold. The necklace had a pattern of vines and flowers with the smaller diamonds at their center.

Some of the tension diffused as Lucilla smiled, and Alistair caught his breath.

"You do know my weakness, Majesty," she said appreciatively, almost coyly. She touched the sapphire with her long fingers, recognizing it as a jewel that Alistair had salvaged from the dragon hoard in the Brecilian ruins. "Star sapphire is quite rare, and goldsmiths who would work with these rarer."

"I'm glad you liked it," Alistair said. "I had a hard time looking for a goldsmith worthy of a queen."

For all her strength, Lucilla had a soft spot for fine things that reminded her of her old life. _Jewel of Highever_ , she was known, a lifetime ago. She had favored filigrees over the more ostentatious designs with one or two gaudy gems set in simple bands of precious metal. She admired the way precious metals could be hammered thinly and twisted into intricate patterns—at first sight it seemed simple and fragile, but closer inspection revealed a depth of design and strength of many wires bound together.

Perhaps that was why she was so taken by Leliana, the charming woman who was many things and often a contradiction. Leliana had appeared uncomplicated, but there were many layers to her. The bard exuded elegance and even as she wore her drab chantry robe or leather armors. She was a pious and spiritual woman, but she was also a clever and manipulative spy, as well as a deadly bowman. Lucilla had relied on such skills from time to time. Leliana was, next to Teyrna Eleanor, was the strongest woman Lucilla had known, and just as loving and beautiful.

Leliana also knew the cruel ways of the world, but she had a tenderness that rivaled an innocent child's. Lucilla loved the way she laughed and talked, as if the bard had never known betrayal or hardship. She also envied Leliana's faith, though she never understood or shared it, cynical as she was after the massacre of her House. Leliana had respected that, and did not pry much about Lucilla's past. The two women fled the ghosts of Orlais and Castle Cousland together, building a world of their own and keeping each other safe. But always, Lucilla had known that that world could evaporate just as quickly as her old life had. Had that day come?

Alistair woke Lucilla from her reverie as walked towards her. He gently placed the necklace upon her collarbone, and oh so casually caressed her nape. She caught his hand swiftly, however.

"I know why you're here," she whispered, in a voice that Alistair thought, _hoped_ , was a caress. "I know what you want. And I know that you've… you've asked my Leliana about it, and she said yes. Had she said no, I would not even have you here with me, Alistair, king or no. And… heirs are very unlikely. You know that."

He wanted to tell her, but his words were stuck in his throat. _Marry me despite that, Lucilla. It doesn't matter if you don't love me_ now _, but I hope you change your mind in the years to come. Thirty years is long enough for you to learn how to love me. And I don't care if you give me heirs or not._

All he could do was kneel beside her on one knee, resting his forehead on her chair.

Lucilla kissed his hair. "If you're thinking of appointing from the Bannorn, you must be very careful. Those often spark civil wars. Look at Orzammar."

Alistair had wanted to stay lost in that chaste kiss forever, but he knew the way to Lucilla's heart was to be the wise King she wanted. And as much as he loved and pined for her, he still cared deeply about the country. He could not stand to think about Fereldans surviving the Blight only to die of starvation in barren fields. He abhorred the way the common folk had suffered for the petty wars that almost threw them back to the age of warring teyrnirs. By the Maker, he swore he would be the King his country needed not just to defeat the Blight, but also to rebuild their lives and prosper.

He decided to use that to his advantage, and spoke in a lordly voice.

"In Orzammar, it was never clear if Harrowmont truly took advantage of Endrin's sickness to gain support from the Assembly. Nor is it certain that Bhelen killed his brothers—it's just as likely that they killed each other. We could prevent a similar situation if, after ruling together effectively for twenty years, we appoint a successor or adopt a child to be officially named our heir and recognized by the Landsmeet while we are still strong. Our successor would also be educated not just in the ways of the court but the ways of the people as well, so that our legacy will live."

"Be that as it may," Lucilla replied, "why can't you have me as a chancellor? Why _marry_ me, someone you don't love and would never love you? Why do you insist on me, a barren woman thanks to the Taint, rather than take a chance with another who may yet give you heirs?"

"I do not want any other woman," Alistair said, still kneeling beside her.

Lucilla touched Alistair's cheek and thought about how this man was so unlike the other suitors and would-be lovers of the Jewel of Highever. Here was a man she respected, not because of his royal blood but because she had seen firsthand how he put other people before him. She knew she could never have accomplished what she had without Alistair providing her support, shielding her in ways more than one.

Not like Thomas Howe, who had only looked at her as a way to improve his station, or Nathaniel his brother who barely exchanged words with her. Darren Loren seemed to genuinely appreciate her penchant for books and learning, but only that. Bann Teagan Guerrin was too old for her, although he was quite handsome and quite the ladies' man. Ser Roland Gilmore came close to winning her heart, for a time, but she knew he could never be the husband she wanted or needed. Better the secret lover of the Teyrna, she had thought before about her favorite knight, than stripped of her title for marrying far beneath her, as Fergus was.

Ah, Fergus. So selfish and irresponsible, marrying for love and letting his dutiful sister take responsibility. The siblings knew that their lofty status, even as it was the envy of a great many noble, came at a price: their lives would never be their own, not truly. But Fergus had found love, and he fought for Oriana with such ferocity. Lucilla envied him for that. She knew that as much as she loved Leliana and her sweet voice, the refuge that they had built together to escape their ghosts would have to be abandoned eventually.

 _Is this it, then?_ Lucilla thought, eyeing Alistair dispassionately _. Is this the duty that must take precedence over my own wishes, the reason why I was snatched from an ignoble death at my parents' side?_

"You're proposing a lifetime alliance for the benefit of our country and our people," she said calmly. She sipped her wine. "Interesting. You are indeed learning, my King."

Alistair fell silent and stood up. Instead of sitting at the table, however, he chose the divan in front of the fire. Lucilla sat down beside him after a prudent moment.

"Do you really not know that I love you?" he asked her in a dejected voice.

"I do love you," Lucilla conceded, gently this time. "You're like family to me. I would give my life for you, if I thought that was for the best. But Leliana has my heart. That cannot be changed."

Alistair stared at the fire and leaned on Lucilla's shoulder, half-expecting that she would turn him away.

But she didn't, and instead she caressed his hair. The jewels he had placed on her neck sparkled in the firelight, and he found that he could not take his eyes off the silhouette of her breast. He hoped, _prayed_ , that she would not notice the painful bulge on his crotch.

Maker forgive him, he was only a man.

He had seen her naked a handful of times before, and she was sure she had as well. Living as soldiers on the road accorded no privacy. And she had sometimes asked him to keep an eye out while she bathed in some stream, when the noblewoman in her could no longer bear the filth that came with their hard lives. Alistair always acted the gentleman, turning his eyes away respectfully, until the night in _The Pearl_ when it didn't take much convincing to have him join Lucilla, Leliana and Isabela for a memorable tumble in the captain's cabin.

How he longed to touch Lucilla again, he thought as he re-lived that one night with her, the bard, and the Rivaini pirate. He had secretly whispered to, even bribed, Isabela to keep Leliana busy so that he could have the woman of his dreams to himself at the ultimate moment, when she had made him a man. She was warm, wanton and wild, everything he had hoped for and more. She placed his hands all over her body and told him, in a husky voice that he had never heard before and since, how she wanted a fat cock inside her. And how she had cried in ecstasy, Maker, he knew he could never forget those for as long as he lived.

 _I'm here on business_ , he reminded himself, _I'm here to secure that my greatest ally would be by my side forever._ But Maker, her breasts! Her nipples were not hard, but he knew how to suckle those to drive her crazy with lust…

"Is that your mother's locket, Luce?" he asked her as he saw the gleam of a long golden chain. He was glad for the distraction. "I'm glad you were able to save it."

"Oh, this?" she said, pulling up an ornate locket the size of a hen's egg. She held it up to the light of the fire and opened it to see her parents' portraits. "Yes, Dagna repaired it for me, as payment for her message to the Circle."

The locket had been dented in the Deep Roads after Lucilla had taken a particularly nasty blow that also ruined her leather armor. She had wept with joy when she found that her parents' portraits were undamaged, but afterwards Alistair chastised her for insisting on light leathers when she could have used medium armor. The argument lasted hours but ended up with Lucilla placing an order for dragonbone splintmail from dwarven smiths.

Alistair prided himself that of all their companions, including Leliana, he alone had known the significance of that jewel—it was the only thing Lucilla had of her mother left. She never spoke of Highever with their other companions, always saying that the grief was still too near. She had even opened the locket for him and shown her parents' portraits, after giving him his mother's amulet from Redcliffe.

The locket, as Alistair remembered, had little gems embedded in it, which were lost in the Deep Roads. Now it had—

"My rose," he gasped.

"Preserved in lyrium," she explained hastily. "It's a beautiful thing, and it's such a shame to just throw it away."

"I didn't ask you to explain," he commented playfully. Hopefully. "I gave it to you, and you kept it. Even after rejecting me."

"I wanted to tell you before you got ideas," she said firmly. "Don't make it an issue."

She wasn't sure why she had kept this rose. Her horde of suitors had given her gifts far more valuable, but she knew those expensive trinkets had no meaning, and even gave some away to devoted servants. But this rose was the gift of a man who loved her for everything that she was… did she owe it to him to keep it?

Or did she place it before the shrine of her parents, anticipating her greatest duty?

"If we both survive, please consider ruling by my side," he entreated, lovingly but authoritatively. "You don't need to give me your heart. I ask nothing more than your companionship and wisdom to lead our country, because the Maker knows that my good intentions are not enough."

Lucilla considered him. "You're an honorable, conscientious man," she replied. "You will make a fine King, even without me."

Alistair smiled, kissed her hand and showed himself out without another word. She watched him go, her fingers curling around her mother's locket. She exhaled, her heart racing, as if she had just come out the other side of battle.

Lucilla had won a thousand of those with her blades and her words. This one, she wasn't sure of.

He would make a good king, even without her.

 _Really?_ the stern voice in her head replied.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to **SteveGarbage** for his concrit that made this work a lot better!


	5. Morrigan

**A/N:** I've revised the first four chapters, thanks in a large part to **SteveGarbage** 's concrit. The plot remains the same, but the writing style and imagery has been improved (I hope!). I welcome concrit from anyone.

* * *

Alistair had cried Lucilla's name when he climaxed.

Morrigan did not mind, of course—she even thought it funny and pathetic. The ex-templar who had won the genetic lottery was, for her, a sentimental idiot at best. She had long known of the fool's hopeless infatuation with their leader, the way he stared at her longingly when she sat down and taught him like a child about the world of nobles.

Not that Morrigan didn't listen to Lucilla's coaching either. The witch had grand plans after the Blight. She learned what she thought she needed by watching Lucilla's demeanor, clipped speech, even the way she dressed when they were resting at Redcliffe and at Denerim. The ways of the highborn, their privileged lives and heavy responsibilities—if they had a mind—were now less of a mystery to her. And while Flemeth had ensured that she knew how to make men do her bidding by the mere bat of her eyelashes, Lucilla had a way with people even Morrigan had to admire. Lucilla's charm—her silver tongue, her blades, even her very femininity—could humble the highest lords, beguile every man and woman she had a mind to. She could talk her way to win anything she desired, but when she did not get her way, her vengeance was terrible. Morrigan did not envy Howe, whose only mistake was to let Lucilla survive, Loghain, who had condoned the death of her family, or Anora, who betrayed Lucilla at the Landsmeet, or even Alistair, who was hopelessly smitten with her.

And Lucilla was perhaps the closest thing she had to a friend, even a sister. Morrigan would genuinely hate for her to die. Lucilla had first given her jewelry, stating that the two women shared a fondness for sparkling adornments, but later Morrigan found herself sharing stories with Lucilla and listening to hers. In time, both women learned to appreciate the other's power and views of the world. And though they shared the view that love was a sentimentality, Lucilla was kinder, saying that love was rather pleasant when not distracting from one's duties.

On occasion, the two had talked about sex. Shamanic sex rites fascinated Lucilla, who laughed as she realized that the Circle probably never even dreamed of such magic. Morrigan found it amusing that their leader liked men and women both. She was disgusted with Lucilla succumbing to the Rivaini pirate whore, but the witch found the noblewoman's doomed teenage affair with one of her family's knights entertaining. Morrigan was even shocked to learn that Lucilla's Ser Gilmore never used their affair to improve his station. She had thought the man an idiot, but since Lucilla seemed to be genuinely fond of the man, she held her tongue and instead asked why their leader found Leliana fascinating. Lucilla answered that she found Leliana's company comforting and warm, so different from the way her noble suitors and peerless knight had held her cold and distant in a pedestal, back in her old life.

Morrigan remembered chuckling at Lucilla's answer, and then asked her why the noblewoman did not welcome "that idiotic ex-templar's advances" instead. In Morrigan's opinion, Alistair's impressive physique was more alluring than Leliana's former spy slash cloistered nun demeanor. For her, both were simpletons anyway, so why not choose the one who looked better?

Lucilla had simply answered, "Leliana's more fun," before changing the topic.

Morrigan was not sure what love was, of course, and so she could never distinguish if the pretentious bard and the haughty noblewoman merely slept together for pleasure or for something more. But having learned a little about friendship, thanks to the same haughty noble, she noticed that their leader spent more time with Alistair than necessary, and not always on Warden business. She taught him about trade, the who's-who in Ferelden and Thedas, the fragile balance between nations and peoples comprising nations, and even shared anecdotes about her family. In return, he told her about growing up with the Templars, their rigid training, the joy he found in the Wardens, and later, his doubts and insecurities.

Finally, Morrigan saw how Lucilla had seen how infatuated Alistair was with her. Was she encouraging him, despite her initial rejection of him with little things like allowing him to hold her hand, coquettish glances, or their less-than-innocent exchanges that made his blood quicken?

Before she agreed to the dark ritual, however, Lucilla had taken Morrigan by the arm and commanded her price.

"Be gentle with my King," Lucilla said with her most imperious voice. "He deserves far more than this."

Was this a semblance of love? Why did Lucilla return it so sparingly, when he had lavished his love upon her so generously? Or was this a true gesture of love, was there more than one form of love in this world?

And so Morrigan learned her last lesson from their leader: how to pity.

She pitied this man with his great unrequited love. He had closed his eyes during their rutting, grunting his nickname for her—"Luce, my light, oh!" He was most likely imagining that the neck he kissed and the breasts he fondled were Lucilla's, and not the witch's whom he hated. He caressed her with his eyes closed, even kissed her lips once, but he drew back when he realized that it was not actually Lucilla he was kissing.

His manhood shrank and drew away from her. Morrigan panicked. She needed his seed, and would do anything, _anything_ , to help him focus on their ritual. If she had to forego her pleasure, so be it—she didn't expect him to give her a release anyway.

Morrigan remembered something that Flemeth taught, and Leliana articulated so poetically: _A man could always be seduced by the right woman. The trick is finding out who she is._

The witch didn't need to think hard.

She held Alistair tenderly, like a lover or a wife, and cast a temporary dream-spell on him.

"I love you, my husband," she whispered, imagining that this was what he wanted Lucilla to say to him. "My strong, fine man. Come. Let me feel you. Let me love you."

Morrigan stroked his member, gently at first before becoming rigorous. "My strong, fine man. Come now, your Lucy wants to play with you."

Alistair sighed, his eyes still closed.

 _Oh heavens_ , she thought, _let this work! I can't keep this up. This role play sickens me_.

It took a few moments, far too long for Morrigan's liking, before Alistair took the initiative, buried his face on her neck, spread her legs wide, and plunged deep in her. She was glad that her spell was stronger than the man's olfactory senses.

"Luce, oh, my beautiful wife," he stammered. "Love me."

He thrust hard one last time and came screaming her name.

Morrigan felt his seed inside her. Good, she thought.

She wasn't sure if this was still pity or her compliance with Lucilla's command, when she waited for a while and let him dream that he lay in the arms of his beloved. She even allowed herself to wonder what it would be like to be a simple-minded fool, like this idiot Alistair or that sanctimonious bard Leliana, and make love intimately, not merely to fuck with abandon or rut like animals in heat.

Were Lucilla, Alistair, and Leliana fools for loving a person other than themselves? Was Flemeth wrong?

Alistair awoke immediately after the spell was lifted. He groaned and purposefully looked away from her. Beautiful as Morrigan was, in that wild, exotic way, she was not the woman he wanted to be intimate with on what was likely the last night of his life. He did not want the image of Lucilla, wet and wanton for him, to evaporate. He begrudged the witch for playing with his mind and learning his deepest shame.

"I had always thought that men found sex to be pleasurable, not miserable," Morrigan commented gently as she dressed.

"I did it to save her life," Alistair snorted. "Do me a favor, and never share the details of this night. It is… shameful."

"I once thought that love was shameful altogether," Morrigan remarked, still in that kind voice. "But she pointed at a different direction. She said love is rare, and often a weakness, but with the right person it is the most splendid thing."

"In my case, it's a weakness, I suppose," he said dejectedly. "Are you certain she will live?"

"She will survive the killing blow on the Archdemon, if that's what you're asking," Morrigan answered. "But I cannot guarantee that she will not fall by other means. Stray arrows, a falling rock, a dagger in the dark, a cleaving axe, my magic cannot protect her from such. But you can, and if you do, the two of you will live gloriously. You will then have the rest of your life to woo her."

"She doesn't want to be wooed," Alistair blurted.

"All of us want to be wooed by the right person," Morrigan corrected him, realizing that there may be truth in what she thought was what he wanted to hear. "Some prefer gentleness, others crave power, excitement and adventure. Some are fiery, but others have are wrapped in thick ice that needs to be melted before reaching their hearts. But everybody wants to feel comfort, even companionship from time to time. 'Tis only natural."

"Why are you being nice?" Alistair asked. He pulled the blanket to cover his face. Just because Morrigan knew of his affections did not mean he would allow her to see his shame.

"I thought I owed Lucilla this one kindness," she answered. She would probably have been kind, even if Lucilla had not commanded it. "I do not forget your part with Flemeth and with tonight's ritual."

"Right, because being nice is the only way you can repay her for slaying your abomination of a mother and siring this demon baby," Alistair commented sardonically. "How about fetching me some whiskey?"

"Have a care with your tone, king or no," Morrigan warned him. "My goodwill has limits."

"Sorry," Alistair said, not entirely true. He would have to trust Lucilla, Morrigan and fate itself that his child would not start another Blight, or wreak havoc on the throne Lucilla had given him.

Still, he had to admit that the witch was doing him a favor.

"Before she agreed to this ritual," Morrigan said serenely, "I gave her a fertility potion, similar to what I have taken prior to our… activity. And I would have you know that it was she who asked for it. I did not volunteer to share my mother's spells and secrets. But I have counseled her to let the potion mature and let its power grow for a few years. I think she wants to use it with you."

"With me?" Alistair said, shocked. He pulled the blanket from his face.

"Are you truly blind so as not to see that Lucilla has been itching to be Queen, to fulfill the destiny for which she was born and raised?" Morrigan said, losing what serenity and patience she had. "She placed your crown on your head because that is her best chance to fulfill her ambition. She will want to see you survive and succeed, with her not disregarded in the background."

"She said no, when I sought her hand," Alistair said.

"She is being coy, and that priestess is not doing her any favors," Morrigan said irritably. "Women are fickle creatures, never forget that."

She rose to leave, but paused at the door.

"Goodbye, Your Majesty," Morrigan said formally. "It's likely that I'll never see you again after the battle tomorrow. But if love means that one is willing to do anything for the beloved, to teach them or lay down their life for them, to contemplate building a life together with common goals, then it means that your Lucilla loves you. She will make a most splendid Queen."


	6. Zevran

Lucilla was someone never to cross, Zevran reminded himself for the thousandth time, as he saw the bright column of light from the top of Fort Drakon. _Ah, Archdemon, even if you're a god, you still should have stayed in the bowels of the earth and avoided her wrath._

He had known it from the moment he set his eyes on her after he accepted the Crows' contract. He saw numerous examples of what happened to people who crossed her: she was not above gutting or poisoning or shooting or stabbing or hitting her enemies. Or threatening to do any of those, which sometimes worked so that she need not actually kill. And she was not above asking someone to do those things, someone she trusted, like him. She had already given instructions to let Vaughn Kendalls die of alcohol poisoning three weeks from now. Zevran could tell that he would make a large fortune as her personal assassin, when she assumed the throne—of both, he had no doubt.

Not that Lucilla was a killer after his own cold heart. Quite the contrary. She was capable of compassion, sometimes: Zevran was still very much alive thanks to her. He chuckled when he heard from Morrigan what she did to the Redcliffe apostate Jowan. She tried very hard to save the child Connor, although she used both Wynne and Morrigan's most powerful paralysis spells to contain him while she fetched the other mages. She stayed her hand when confronted with Zathrian, and gave the dwarven criminal carta leader, Jarvia, a chance to back down. And Lucilla seemed to genuinely care about her people too: she listened to them and gave what she could. She was very wise, in Zevran's opinion, always seeming to know exactly what to say to people, so that when she sought favors they would give it. Or end up dead if she thought she could never sway them. He wasn't sure how she did it, but her results were always fine.

Zevran wondered if Lucilla had kept her wits about her this time. _Of course she did_ , a part of him said, although another reminded him of what had happened at Howe's estate. His internal debate continued: _Howe was a special case. You've never seen Lucilla lose her mind like that before, or since. She'll keep her wits about her this time; there's nothing personal between her and the Archdemon._

Besides, Alistair and Leliana were by her side. Those two would rather go to the Void rather than see Lucilla fall.

* * *

Zevran would never forget the day she claimed her vengeance against Howe. She had asked him for his strongest sleeping potions—a pinkish concoction that Zevran learned from his time as a Crow—and saw how she laced Alistair's and Leliana's tea with them: she said they were a liability, but he could tell, from that uncharacteristic sadness in her eyes, that she could not let herself face the possibility that Howe would take another of her loved ones.

Then she summoned him, Oghren, Wynne, Morrigan and Sten, and told them that the old mage and the Qunari were to guard Alistair, Eamon and Leliana with their lives. She gave her hound a tight hug, but did not allow him to come. And with cold fury in her eyes, she took one look at their weapons, and headed for the door, ready to meet the Queen's maid at Howe's new castle.

But as they were leaving Eamon's estate, a sheathed sword blocked her path.

 _So Alistair is not as foolish as he looked_ , Zevran thought, and he probably learned his poison-making lessons well enough to identify them. Or, more likely, he knew Lucilla too well. A shame the bard did not: she was probably still in the tea room, drooling in that gorgeous low-cut Orlesian dress. Alistair, on the other hand, was just as fully alert, armed and armored as the rest of them.

"Did you think I'll let you go that easily, Luce?" he asked in a cajoling voice . Lucilla moved to slap him, but he caught her hand. Zevran, Oghren, and Morrigan stepped back, afraid of being caught in the crossfire: Lucilla had not in her best element since meeting Howe in Eamon's estate, but she was no less dangerous.

"Duncan and your brother promised me justice," she exclaimed, hysteria in her voice.

"Duncan and Cailan made a lot of promises, Luce," Alistair countered, his voice steady and calm as he strapped his sword to his back. "But those were given in a different time. We need our wits about us, now. I'm sure they would counsel that."

"Go back to your room," Lucilla ordered, her voice betraying her grief, fury and uncertainty. "I have this under my control."

"You know what, Boss?" Oghren said suddenly. "You don't. And you are not fit to go berserk on any battlefield at all. If you go to Howe's without the proper team, you're dead."

"Oghren, that's enough," Alistair said authoritatively, but Zevran saw how he had winked at the dwarf. "For that insubordination, you're grounded." He turned to Lucilla. "Luce, you can't go to Howe's without a properly trained _defensive_ warrior in the team. Now either you stay here and switch with Sten, or you follow _my_ orders, as your senior Warden."

"I will not forget this," Lucilla said as she acquiesced, her voice laced with venom. "And I will kill Howe myself."

"I can live with that," Alistair answered.

And Alistair did take the lead. He ordered them all to wear disguises, and yanked the uniform helmet atop Lucilla's head when she refused. He tasked Zevran to listen in soldiers' conversations and steal what he could, and learned that not all of them had been in Highever recently and counseled Lucilla to stay her hand against the Arl of Denerim's soldiers. When Zevran handed him jewels with the familiar laurel sigil, he grasped the elf's upper arm in appreciation.

Alistair also discovered where Anora was kept, although Lucilla was not interested in the slightest. She was itching to get to Howe. So the team breezed through the palace, until they reached the lower dungeons, where they discovered Howe's most trusted soldiers. Alistair allowed Lucilla to slaughter them all, but he himself was always on the defensive, watching out for stray arrows and hidden daggers, and specifically ordering Morrigan to dispatch enemy mages first. Together, the team discovered proof of Howe's depravity: tortured nobles, imprisoned templars, locked-up elves. Alistair set them free, but Lucilla's face was stone: this time she was not interested in serving justice to anyone but herself.

She killed Howe herself in a deadly dance of daggers, sword and axe. She was not her usual self: her moves were not calculated and almost clumsy. She almost had to rely on Morrigan's discreet hexes and the poisons she covered her father's sword with. But she succeeded, and after spilling Howe's intestines to the floor and hearing his last curse, she cut his head off and spat on it.

"I will kill your wife and children next, Rendon," she told the dismembered head.

"That's enough, Lady Lucilla Cousland," Alistair said imperiously, snatching Howe's head from her grasp and throwing it to the floor. He quickly tore off his left gauntlet and took Lucilla in his arms.

For the first and probably the only time in all their lives, they heard Lady Lucilla Cousland, warrior and aristocrat, weep, a deep, guttural sound that shook all of them, including hardened assassin Zevran and frigid Morrigan, to their core. It was all the grief, all the fury, all the loneliness she did not allow herself to feel for the past year. She had finally allowed herself to grieve for her family.

Zevran had an idea what grief was, how it was to lose a beloved. Losing Rinnala was hard, and for a long time he felt he could no longer live without her, not truly. But life with Lucilla and Alistair, Leliana and even Oghren, Wynne and Sten, Morrigan and Ted the mabari: Zevran had a semblance of what a family could be like. He could not imagine losing them all at once, especially at the hands of someone he trusted.

Alistair allowed the both of them to squat on the floor, even if his legs were crossed in a very uncomfortable position. He discreetly signaled Morrigan to burn Howe's remains in a small grease-fire.

The hardened assassin's heart bled for the woman weeping at the floor, before he realized that Alistair's heart was no less grieving as he held the woman of his dreams in his arms, finally free to hold her and without her beloved getting in the way.

 _Ah, love is truly selfish, is it not? How long has he waited to hold her like that? Ever since her first nightmares of darkspawn? Did Alistair relish darkspawn dreams because it led Lucilla to him, as Leliana was powerless to comfort her after those? How long has he lain in his tent, longing for her, refusing my suggestion that he take another woman, even one paid to deal with men's heartaches?_

Alistair held Lucilla's shaking body with his right hand, but with his left, ungloved hand he stroked her hair. Slowly, she calmed down until her tears flowed down her dark eyes without a sound, looking at nothing in particular, acknowledging not even her closest companions, lost in her own world but clutching the man who held her with such ferocity.

Alistair must be shrieking with joy inside his heart.

"Pity," commented the witch softly to the assassin, "she deserved to enjoy her vengeance."

"Pity, indeed," replied Zevran. _He could only hold her when she is vulnerable. It's almost like he's taking advantage of her plight._

* * *

Zevran was a little surprised when Lucilla did not march down triumphant from Fort Drakon, her armor gleaming and not a hair out of place, striding like a warrior queen straight out of legend after defeating her nemesis. Instead, she was unmoving in Alistair's arms, and panic filled Zevran—

"She's alive, but in pain," Leliana told him in a bitter voice, as she approached him. "Morrigan's disappeared, and the healers couldn't care for her properly without their equipment in the tents. Eamon thought... her being seen with Alistair with such… intimacy… would endear her to the people as queen."

Zevran saw Wynne with Irving and the other Circle mages behind Eamon, who was behind Alistair as he carried Lucilla to the healing tents. His eyes followed the royal entourage until they disappeared behind a guarded tent.

"But my beauty, surely you should be there?" Zevran told her. "She will want you there."

Leliana responded by grabbing the brandy at his waist. "I'd rather pass out of my own drinking than be poisoned by her teas."

Zevran had known love. The exhilarating high of giving love and being loved in return. And the inevitable price that one must pay for this temporary satisfaction: reckonings, accountability, irrationality, recklessness, jealousy, betrayal. Love was a fantasy of the nobility, something lowly people like themselves would never enjoy. Like Rinna. If Zevran and Rinna were not what they were, if they were born with an equal rank, they would probably have had a chance at love. But no. Rinnala was Antivan royalty and a Crow, and Zevran was but the bastard son of an elven prostitute.

Leliana should know better. She was a bard, a spy—her station in life dictated that she would never be free to love, not for a long period of time. Zevran wanted to remind Leliana that Lucilla, being noble, was inevitably fated to marry someone of her own kind. Their love was as doomed as Zevran and Rinna's.

But Leliana's pretty face was so sad, and Alistair's so smug, that Zevran felt it was an injustice.

Why should someone lowly, like himself or Leliana, be denied of the love of someone highborn? Why did Alistair get unfair advantages because of his lofty station, first as Lucilla's senior Warden and second as the King who outranked all of them, including her?

This must be remedied, Zevran thought. Even for a moment. Leliana, and all the other lowly people denied a chance at love because of difference of rank, deserved some justice.

 _Rinnala, this is for you_ , he thought, as he drew a vial of pinkish liquid from his belt-bag and gave it to Leliana.

"The king and his entourage, including the mages, must be very tired, no?" Zevran said deviously. "They need to rest for a long time."

Leliana smiled devilishly.


	7. Wynne

Wynne woke up with the most terrible migraine she'd ever had in her life.

The senior enchanter would never have poisoned by Antivan tea in the Circle. Wynne was loved and respected there, by both mages and templars alike. Her advice was always heeded, her mentoring appreciated. And nothing in the Fereldan Circle of Magi was ever resolved through means as crude as poison. Oh, sure, the mages' last rebellion ended up with near-total destruction of the Circle and demons going amok, but still. _No poison or other ignoble means of murder._

She made a mental note to never accept anything edible from Leliana again—or Zevran, for that matter. Or Lucilla.

The elderly mage looked around. She was still inside the royal tent, with its important papers, desks and trunks of supplies. In the middle was a brazier to keep the most important woman in Ferelden right now warm, but she was not there to appreciate it; her bunk was empty. Beside it was Alistair, sitting dejectedly, a flask in his hand.

"Wynne," he slurred. "I've a migraine. Can you wave your hands to make it better?"

Wynne sighed. She doubted that Alistair drank Leliana's laced tea and took the flask away from him.

" _She's_ with _her_ ," Alistair rambled. In between hiccups , he added, "she says she wants a different healer. Where's Morrigan?"

"I don't know where Morrigan is," Wynne said patiently. When Alistair reached for his flask, however, Wynne shot him a dark look. "You're better than this, Alistair."

The man fell silent, and took his face in his hands. Wynne left his side and rummaged in the trunks for a makeshift potion. It was not a poultice she made often in the Circle, but travelling with Oghren gave her plenty of opportunity for whipping it up.

"Here," she handed her makeshift remedy to Alistair. "Drink all of it."

The young man obeyed. Wynne thanked the Maker for small mercies—here was, at least, a young fellow who appreciated her and followed her orders, like an obedient schoolboy or a rightfully filial son. And if Lucilla did not, so be it. Wynne had done her part in healing her body of all hurt it obtained from her battles.

Alistair looked up to Wynne as a kind grandmother—doting, benevolent and wise. But Wynne never got the impression that the other warden, Lucilla, did so. The young noblewoman was coolly civil with her, sometimes inquiring about her health, more often than not gently ordering her to create salves, balms, poultices and bandages. Wynne was never Lucilla's choice in missions—not even when she returned to Ostagar to salvage what she could. She was devastated by that decision, as she wanted to re-live what glorious moments she had of her life as a mage and subject of Ferelden, however horrendous.

Wynne was probably the first to have guessed Eamon's match-making plans. She was among the mages who prepared the drought made with Andraste's ashes that revived the old Arl. She saw the way Eamon's eyes widened when he heard that Alistair's companion was none other than the lofty daughter of Teyrn Bryce Cousland. She realized that it was the Maker's providence that a prince of Ferelden was trying to save his country from the Blight with the help of a woman fit to be among Ferelden's list of warrior-queens.

Except that Lucilla was more of a scoundrel than an honorable knight, and Alistair never really identified himself as a prince. And more importantly, that aristocratic Lucilla's heart was with another, someone so far beneath her station, it would be the height of scandal in the Landsmeet, maybe even beyond. Leliana was an Orlesian bard, after all.

* * *

Months ago, before they finished the treaties, Wynne was on shared night watch duty with Lucilla. It was the last time she the mage had spoken to their leader seriously and in private.

Every other member of their party was asleep, and Lucilla was poking the dying embers of their campfire with a stick, smiling and humming while she did so. Wynne knew that Lucilla wanted nothing more than return to Leliana's tent, to savor what joys of the flesh she could. But the elderly mage decided to give the noblewoman a piece of her mind.

"Tell me, do you love Leliana?" Wynne asked bluntly. She was no Orlesian who shrouded her true intent with flowery words. "And why do you lead Alistair on?"

"I beg your pardon?" Lucilla asked incredulously. The joyful, youthful look on her face was gone, replaced by the steely glare she reserved for intimidating her adversaries.

"You heard me, my lady," Wynne said. She believed herself wise; she had to call Lucilla out for toying with the hearts of two of her closest companions. "Do you know that love could lead us to the most dastardly of situations? It is selfish to fall in love, when someone is in your place. In any of you three. You have the burden of command, Alistair has his father's crown—"

Lucilla stood up to her full height, her posture that of a great feudal lord addressing someone so beneath her. With a melodramatic flair, she even drew her sword and struck it to the ground.

"I encourage each and every one in my circle to voice out their dissents and opinions of my actions," Lucilla said authoritatively. Wynne had never heard a more menacing voice in her life, not even from the demons of the Fade. "And I take my advisors' counsel seriously. Oghren dissented to killing Branka outright, but Shale opposed any attempts against Caridin. Sten refused to venture in Haven to find the Ashes. Alistair begged to save Redcliffe from the undead, and Leliana opposed to the use of blood magic in exorcising Connor. You asked me to rethink doing Master Ignacio any favors. All of those, I took into consideration before deciding our course of action."

Lucilla narrowed her eyes dangerously, and pointed the tip of her sword at Wynne's chin. "You're dismissed, old woman."

And with a stern command to wake Zevran and Alistair up for their watch, she turned her back.

* * *

Wynne did not turn her back to the Wardens. She thought about leaving, of going back to the Circle to help rebuild, but she could not leave Alistair. Not when the young lad asked her why she looked troubled, what he could do for her. He knew of the terrible burden of the last two Wardens of Ferelden, and she could not in good conscience leave him with Lucilla. Moments later, Leliana and Zevran inquired about her as well, but she politely refused any of their help. Shale offered to crush the head of the person who troubled her so, but she just chuckled; the Golem could never obey that order. Oghren could sense that she was troubled, and offered her a drink, which she accepted, vile as it was, and was thankful that the dwarf never pressed her for details.

Wynne never told another soul of the encounter between her and Lucilla. She was so humiliated by it, she felt that no one would be able to respect her anymore, let alone call her a mentor. Oghren seemed to understand; he knew what disgrace could mean. Whenever he caught Wynne looking particularly disturbed by Lucilla, he offered the mage a drink.

Wynne thought about apologizing, but she never thought of herself as wrong, not in that particular act anyway. Lucilla had duties which were distracting her. Besides, she was high-born; she should never love anyone below her station. She should not love _anyone_ at all, except the man who would be her husband. Love was not something she could afford—not for Leliana, anyway. It was cruel of her to thus treat Leliana and Alistair.

And Wynne's sense of propriety was more than her sense of shame: she was tempted to warn Leliana about Lucilla's true horrible, manipulative nature, but Wynne was frightened of the consequences. Sweet and respectful as she was, Leliana was still Lucilla's lover. What if Leliana did not believe her? What if she squealed to Lucilla—would their leader slit her throat or merely throw her bags away? Nor could Wynne talk to Alistair. She saw the way his eyes followed her, like a mabari puppy longing for some attention. He sometimes voiced dissents to Lucilla, but he did it in a way that reinforced Wynne's association of him with mabari puppies: with a soft, pleading voice that she suspected Lucilla could never resist, or maybe that was how Lucilla kept him wrapped around her finger.

Also, leaving the party would also imply to Lucilla that she had won: that she could toy with the emotions of those around her. No. Wynne would stay, and help their little party in their noble cause, however ignoble their leader was.

But as far as leaders go, Lucilla was not a particularly bad one: she had results. All the warden treaties were fulfilled, in time, and in exemplary ways too, if Wynne would only admit it. Lucilla eradicated the undead crisis in Redcliffe and revived Eamon. She stopped the abhorrent slave trade of Fereldan elves. She emerged triumphant in the Landsmeet, restoring her birthright in the Teyrnir of Highever and securing Alistair in his father's throne. Now, she beheaded the Archdemon and stopped the biggest threat to her country. All of these led to her having the loyalty and gratitude of all Fereldans, noble and commoner alike: the queenship was all hers for the taking.

* * *

Wynne cast another look at the young lad near her, and felt a stab of pity.

Why did Alistair love Lucilla so?

"Are you thinking of asking me why I hold her so dear, when she clearly does not?" Alistair asked her. The lad had caught the way her eyes held him in pity.

Wynne was surprised at how quickly he had sobered up: but she shouldn't really have: if her potion could sober up Oghren, it could sober up anyone. The elderly woman saw Alistair as a young child, someone she ought to protect from the brutal realities of the world. Like a mage-child whose true powers would never be comprehended by fearful villagers, only by fellow great mages.

"I'll spare you the trouble, Wynne, and the embarrassment of asking. She's the only one alive who ever showed me affection and friendship," Alistair said, blunt and straight to the point.

"Eamon—" Wynne began.

"Eamon chose to love his wife than fulfill his promise to my father," Alistair finished. "And my father never even wanted me around. Lucilla tells me that Anora said Cailan discovered about me, and was about to contact me when the Blight started, so I'll never know if my brother truly cared for me. And of course, Duncan is as dead as the Archdemon."

Alistair opened a trunk to take another flask. He took a long swig before talking again. "This country needs her, Wynne," he continued. Wynne could smell his breath, tainted with the stench of whiskey. "Look at what she's done, in a year. Can you imagine what she'll achieve in a lifetime? But she needs a royal husband. Many block-head nobles would never listen to her ideas or follow her orders if she is only Teyrna."

"Don't sell yourself short, my King," a voice came from behind them. Lucilla entered the tent, limping as she did so. Leliana was at her side, but with a quick kiss she bade her lover to wait outside. Both women looked flushed, their hair and shirts in disarray. Wynne also caught the briefest moment when Leliana's eyes flashed dangerously at Alistair as she entered.

"Also, never say that again," Lucilla told Alistair, jabbing at his chest with her finger. "I would not have the King slander his own position, or the noble houses of Ferelden. And quit drinking too much. You need to appear dignified."

"I will take my leave, my lady," Wynne said, bowing to Lucilla. She was not inclined for a royal etiquette lecture.

But Lucilla took Wynne's hands and looked her in the eye. Lucilla's hands were very soft, as could be expected for a noblewoman, save for the parts where the hilts of her swords caused calluses.

"I owe many things to you, Senior Enchanter," Lucilla said formally, no longer bossy and commandeering. Uncanny how quickly Lucilla changed hats, the old mage thought."My life. That of the King's. Innumerable more. But I also owe you my apologies, if ever I have caused you any trouble."

Lucilla took a heavy ruby pendant attached to a thick gold chain, and placed it in the mage's hands. "So that you'll always remember me by. And if your travels should take you to Highever, my people will know that you have assisted their Teyrna, and will extend due gratitude."

For a moment, Wynne forgot everything. Lucilla's voice soothed her, flattered, her, even. Was Lucilla asking for forgiveness? Or was it her way of paying just compensation for services during the Blight? The mage took a look at the pendant, and it was quite an extravagant jewel. The blood red stone was almost the size of a hen's egg, and the heavy gold chain glinted in the firelight. Wynne was almost touched that Lucilla, who was so fond of jewelry, would part with one that was so beautiful.

Until she realized that Lucilla regularly found treasures, and this gift was one of many unenchanted, potentially useless things she picked up and discarded along the way.

"Take care of Alistair and Leliana, Lucilla," Wynne whispered. "They deserve so much better."

"You may not believe it, but they are quite dear to me," Lucilla answered. This time, her voice was softer, almost like a child's. "Far more than you know."

The elderly mage squeezed the young noblewoman's hands before she left.

She prayed that Lucilla would not discard kind Alistair or sweet Leliana just as easily.


	8. Sten

Sten closed his eyes, crossed his legs and meditated.

So much had happened. So many of his brethren, his antaam, did not make it. Karashok and Arvaraad were no more. No, not even the Fade could bring them back. Only his task was left; only the demands of the Qun were eternal. And finally, he was ready to comply with those demands: he could resume the mission his antaam was in Ferelden for. He was certain that the Arishok would be pleased; he was ready to travel soon. The Kadan, Warden Lucilla, had already given him a map, provisions, and a pouch of coin to ensure his safe travels well beyond the borders of her country.

He had to thank Lucilla, for enabling him to comply with the demands of the Qun. And for her, and not for anything else, he would remain in this cold land until her king's formal proclamation, wherein he was sure that the bas king would grant her honors to her heart's desires.

Sten's meditation was cut short when he heard a knock and the heavy oaken door open. A cold draft entered the room, and Sten shivered a little bit. He had been meditating in front of the fire, as he found the cold disturbing: despite all his time in the south, he had not been used to it.

Along with the draft, however, was the unmistakable aroma of freshly baked—what's the word again—cookies.

"My apologies," he heard a familiar voice say curtly. "I shall come back at a later time."

He could tell that his visitor had not set foot in his room, and he could hear the door being creaked shut again. But this was the one person outside Qunari lands who had the right to summon him at any time. And that she had a bribe did not make her any less welcome.

"Kadan," Sten answered, turning his head towards the door. He did not stand up; he was sure Lucilla would understand his gestures as an invitation.

True enough, Lucilla walked towards where he sat meditating, and joined him to sit on the floor, her legs daintily tucked beneath her.

Sten was unused to see Lucilla in women's garb: she was wearing, instead of her armor, a loose ankle-length dress, tied at the waist with a belt, and roomy enough to allow her to fight. It was made of fine blue cloth that proclaimed her standing as the second-highest noble in the land. And though she limped, and was wearing a noblewoman's dress, she was no less deadly: he saw her family sword strapped to her back, and he knew that she never went anywhere without daggers hidden all over her person.

"I brought you cookies and some sword-oil, for Asala," she told him simply. She gave him two brown cloth bags, and Sten noted a large sigil ring on her finger: it was enormous and featured a laurel wreath. Lucilla must have noticed his curious stare, so she explained, smiling slightly, "This is the sigil of my House. My father gave it to me when he died."

"The symbol of your nobility," Sten said. It was not a question: he knew how obsessed humans could be about rank and station, but he also guessed that this ring could be a key to her House, like the ring of Bann Teagan that opened the windmill in Redcliffe. Perhaps that ring, trivial thing that it was, had saved her life and was worthy of honor.

"Yes," Lucilla agreed.

"You've never worn this before, Kadan," Sten noted, "but you have carried your sword ever since. You did not replace it with other swords you found in your journey."

"With Highever fully restored to me, it feels right to wear my family's ring," Lucilla answered. She took out her sword, and examined it in the firelight. "But this sword, well… I suppose that you, of all people, would understand what a sword can mean, and how it can impose an obligation long after the death of its previous owner. And it's a good sword."

Of course, Sten understood swords and their value. Asala was his soul, after all.

"What does your ring mean, then?" Sten inquired, and this time, he had no sarcastic comments for her. Just pure respect, and curiosity. "What does being noble in this land entail?"

"This ring means that we Couslands always do our duty," she said simply. "That is our privilege, our honor and our burden." And then she told him stories about growing up in Highever, a warrior and a leader of her people. She told him about her education, her martial training and the endless lessons she took from her mother and father about governance. About how the people should be treated, and about how they should treat her. About the significance of her rank, and what her duties might entail in time.

Sten understood, and he wondered if Lucilla did, too.

In Sten's opinion, Lucilla's duty did not end with beheading the Archdemon, but rather continued to the rebuilding of her nation. Such would be the demand of the Qun if the blight had occurred in Qunari lands, after all. And to rebuild her nation, she had to take drastic steps.

"Have you ever wondered what would have happened if you neglected the demands of your Qun and you did as you pleased?" Lucilla finally asked. "If, for instance, you dropped your sword and became a baker instead, the maker of those sweet cookies you like."

"Kadan, you are not yourself," Sten told her. He knew that at some point, she was going to ask this: he knew of dutiful Lucilla's dangerous distractions with the red-haired priestess. Sten had always known whom between the two Wardens was truly in charge, the one without whom none of this would be possible, but he also thought that Lucilla flirted with the danger of discarding her duties for the priestess. At first, he did not believe that a woman would ever be capable of leading forces into battle, precisely because of this danger, because Lucilla was not Tamassran. But Lucilla had proved him wrong, and in her Sten had seen the reason why the Qunari had never truly defeated the bas. These humans were formidable, if they were forced to be, and if they cast aside their baser, petty desires.

Sten knew, hoped, that Lucilla would be better than what she was allowing him to see at this point. She was a warrior, not always fighting with strictly honorable means, but the Qun allowed such tactics from time to time in order to win. Lucilla was worthy to be Tamassran, and a great leader of her people. If she rose to power, and she should, Sten would not look for her in the battlefield when the Qun would invade the South.

And it was not exactly the demand of the Qun, what he wanted to do for her: to make her see her true worth, her true potential. This would be his way of getting even with her: she returned his sword and enabled him to return to Par Vollen. Now, he needed to bring her head from the clouds, as her people would say. But he had to find a gentle way to tell her, because he valued her and did not want her to dismiss him; Sten had worked his way to gain the respect of Lucilla, and he would not lose it over a callow remark.

Besides, Sten had noted that even among his people, small pleasures gained in the course of dutiful compliance were to be valued, as long as they were neither petty nor base. Like the cookies, and like his memories of his brothers.

"I was not always Sten of the Beresaad," Sten told Lucilla, and he smiled at the memory. "My brothers were not always Arvaraad and Karashok. We were children once, and we enjoyed what we could. We gave each other names. We did pretend-fights and challenges and the lessons of the Tamassran together. We all enjoyed the warm comforts of our home."

Sten told Lucilla more about the Qunari than the Tamassran probably would like her to know: how Qunari children were raised communally, how they would learn, and how the bonds of brotherhood were solidified at this stage. But he quickly ratiocinated that _he_ had learned how human nobles were trained, what kind of leadership they were expected to give their people, and this, surely, would be beneficial to the Qun.

"Eventually, the Qun demanded we learn more, so we were sent south," Sten continued. "The Arishok wished to know what the Blight was. My brothers died learning what it was. I did not. So I have to return, and I will give him a satisfactory answer. This is my duty, but I also did more: I learned the ways of your people. And I enjoyed myself. Paintings, art, kittens, flowers and cookies are not found in Qunari lands. Or at least, I was not tasked to engage with them. When I return, I will tell them about those about those soft things, but I know they will ignore it. They question me about the Blight, and what the bas did to eradicate it. This way, I did my duty, to you and to them. And I did so with enjoyment and pleasure."

Lucilla smiled, like a naughty child in a conspiracy to steal cookies from the larder. "I always value your advice, Sten," she told him. "Enjoy the cookies."

"Thank you for them, kadan," Sten replied.

* * *

Three days later, Sten was among the guests of honor in King Alistair's coronation. Sten was no stranger to celebrations, as even the Qunari from time to time had celebrated triumphs of their heroes in the war against Tevinter. And he could tell that the people celebrated Lucilla's triumph more than their King's ascension.

The bas king, Alistair, gave some speech about the blight and the unity of his nation that Sten did not listen to. He had discreetly walked to the back, where the sweets table was. He thanked Lucilla in his mind for ensuring that there were sweets in the ceremony, and as he was thinking of her, he saw her take the King's proffered hand.

"May I present the Hero of Ferelden, my betrothed and your future Queen!" the king proclaimed, to the wild cheers of the crowd.

Lucilla was the picture of radiance, outshining even the newly-crowned King in his golden armor. She was wearing the same golden plate, as if proclaiming her status as the other half of the crown already. Sten laughed inwardly—humans have such a sense of ceremony and impractical symbolisms. He knew that Lucilla could never fight in heavy plate; the kadan was one of those scoundrels who relied on agility and cunning rather than raw strength.

She gave some speech about the virtues of unity, valor and courage that enabled her country to survive the blight. She nodded to her king and to the individual lords who pledged their allegiance to her during the Landsmeet. Sten knew, however, that unity, valor and courage were not the only things that enabled Lucilla to earn this triumph. Blackmail, lies, and discreet assassinations were as useful as the values she now extolled in order for her to place her chosen king on his throne and for her own ascension.

He smiled and with his cookie, toasted his kadan, the formidable Hero of Ferelden, Queen Lucilla.


	9. Epilogue: Before the Wedding

**Epilogue**

"Andraste's holy knickers, Leliana, I can't breathe!" Lucilla protested.

Leliana was lacing up Lucilla's corset so that she could obtain the perfect silhouette of a trim waist and an ample décolletage for her wedding dress. Lucilla's heritage as a Fereldan woman—her stocky build—was tempered by the muscles of her years of martial training, but this would still not flatter her body in the dress Leliana had chosen. The Orlesian bard of course wanted her beloved Lucilla to look on par with the Empress of Orlais herself, especially considering that this was Lucilla's coronation as the Queen of Ferelden. So she had taken a lot of pains trying to find the perfect dress, the perfect shoes, the perfect fabric: all for Lucilla.

 _Of course, all of it for her._

But Lucilla had not paid the slightest attention in what she would be wearing in her own coronation. The future queen had more pressing matters to attend to—she was busy rebuilding her country and the Grey Warden Order. She could not be bothered with the trivial details of her wedding ceremony to King Alistair, a man she respected but did not love, not romantically anyway. Besides, both women knew that Alistair would wed Lucilla whatever she wore; the terms of their marriage was that she would assist him in ruling Ferelden, no qualms or conditions about what she would be wearing while she did so.

"I'm but another in a long line of Fereldan warrior queens, not a painted glass princess of _Orlais_ ," Lucilla declared angrily, shoving Leliana's hand away from her and forcefully yanking the corset down. Leliana could hear some of the bones cracking broken. "I don't know why I'm not allowed to get the crown wearing the royal armor, really!"

The answer was fairly simple. That long line of warrior queens were of the Theirin blood. Lucilla, however noble she was, was not born a Theirin, but was rather marrying one; she was not entitled to wear the royal armor until she was wed to the royal family. And the way Lucilla said _Orlais_ was not lost in Leliana. As if it was the height of disgrace to be an Orlesian woman, wearing fineries that she considered useless and trivial, when being an Orlesian noble meant that the world and all its beauties could and should be hers. Was she not aware that in Orlais, that long line of warrior queens were but barbarians held in disdain? But now was not the time to educate Lucilla or discuss their difference in taste.

And by the Maker's cruel sense of humor, the door creaked open. Alistair's head popped in.

"How are you ladies getting on?" he asked, his voice playful as always. He was already wearing his finery—he would not disgrace Lucilla by wearing armor when she could not.

"Get out of here!" Lucilla shrieked, throwing the corset at the door. The corset snapped upon contact with the heavy oak.

"Yes, let's get out of here before my dragon of a sister mauls us," Lucilla heard another voice say. Fergus. It had been the Maker's providence that he was found safe: Lucilla could now assume the Queenship assuredly, as Highever would be safe under her brother's care.

"All right, all right," Alistair said. He tried not to stare at Lucilla's state of undress. "Leliana, please make sure the Queen is suitable for the ceremony."

Lucilla was still fuming, but as she caught sight of her beloved, she remembered what she was putting Leliana through: to organize the wedding of her beloved with another man.

"I'm sorry, Leliana," Lucilla whispered, grabbing Leliana's face and noticing that the bard's eyes were already bright. Lucilla chastised herself for not thinking about Leliana today, but really. It was her wedding day, and more importantly, her coronation. Surely, Leliana must cut her some slack.

"But I really cannot fit into that thing," she said gently. "Why can't I wear the ceremonial armor from Highever?"

"You heard _him_ ," Leliana answered, acid in her voice. "He wants his queen suitable for the ceremony, and if he's wearing finery so should you."

"I'm sorry, Leliana," Lucilla whispered again, but Leliana had turned her back to fetch the gown and petticoats she had obtained with much difficulty, and that Lucilla seemed not to mind at all.

Lucilla wore them without much hassle, and then both women looked at her reflection in the looking-glass. The dress was silvery-gray and delicately embroidered. The tight sleeves came down to her wrists, but from her elbow down it was all pure lace. The skirts were full, hardly Ferelden fashion at this time, but Lucilla conceded that Leliana knew more than her in terms of clothing. Her waist and bosom was not as accented as Leliana would have liked, but the thick, golden belt did its job in creating the illusion of a slim waist.

"Can I wear my sword?" Lucilla asked Leliana gently.

Leliana decided that this gentle voice was all that she was going to get today from Lucilla, until after the ceremonies were through. _I'll take what I could get_ , and she summoned all her willpower to appear happy for Lucilla.

Because indeed, she was. Love entailed the celebration of the beloved's triumphs. Besides, if their situations were reversed, Leliana was sure that Lucilla would lavish the same attention on her. _For instance, if I was granted a duchy in Orlais or crowned Divine_ , however unlikely those were.

"No," she replied playfully. "But for your peace of mind"— _for your vanity_ —"I've hidden daggers in your boots."

 _These ugly boots that you insisted on, and which would get you kicked out of Halamshiral or Val Royeaux_ , Leliana whispered bitterly in her heart.

"Ah, my sweet, you know me well!" Lucilla exclaimed, giggling.

Leliana then proceeded with fixing Lucilla's hair. In their travels, Lucilla often wore her long, dark hair plaited and coiled at her nape, so that she could wear her helmet. Today, however, Leliana had the discretion to do as she pleased with her lover's hair, and she decided that Lucilla's brazen appearance would be softened if she let her hair flow gracefully down. So with a tuck here and a jeweled hairpin there, which shone like stars against her dark hair. Finally, she powdered Lucilla's face, dabbed some rouge in her cheeks and lips, and smiled.

Leliana finished her work. Her lover looked never looked more beautiful, more regal.

Lucilla was now, in Alistair's terms, "the Queen suitable for the ceremony."

Lucilla touched Leliana's face, and the latter pretended not to notice her diamond engagement ring. A lavish gift from Alistair, of course.

"I love you, Leliana," Lucilla whispered. "Kiss me."

Leliana complied, and for the sake of peace between them, she kissed Lucilla with all her passion: as if nothing had happened. As if this were her wedding to Lucilla, and that they were proclaiming their love to the world. Leliana closed her eyes and suppressed her tears. For all their differences, she still loved Lucilla Cousland of Highever, soon to be Queen Lucilla Theirin of Ferelden, with all her heart.

Lucilla broke off their kiss not long after, and sought her enchanted jewelry box.

It was the first time Leliana had seen the extent of Lucilla's collection of sparkling adornments. This was something she never shared with Lucilla—she preferred ordinary religious symbols over expensive trinkets. Lucilla took out diamond earrings that seemed to be part of a set—clever Alistair clearly did not bribe Lucilla with just _one_ betrothal gift. After she wore them, her hands travelled over the shining box and found another equally lavish jewel: a necklace, with a large blue jewel she recognized as something Alistair had picked up in their travels and pocketed almost immediately. But clearly he did more than simply pick it up: he had it set, no doubt by a master smith, in an elaborate necklace alongside smaller diamonds.

"That's a pretty thing," Leliana commented, honestly this time.

"It is, right?" Lucilla agreed, noticing the jealousy and bitterness in Leliana's voice, but drowning all her emotions for her lover because she had to do what she must.

She hoped Leliana would understand. As did Alistair, who was only marrying her because by himself, he could never control the realm.

With one final look at her reflection, Lucilla smiled triumphantly.

After all, today was her big day. Today, she would no longer simply be the Hero of Ferelden, its savior and uniter.

She would be its Queen.

* * *

 ** _A/N:_** _And this is it: Lucilla's ascension. I'd like to thank you for reading. There's more of Lucilla coming. Also do check out my write-ups about Leliana!_

 _Special mentions go to **SteveGarbage, Flaminea, Eureka234 and all the other writers of the Dragon Age Fanfiction Writers Group in Facebook.** Their help has been invaluable in the creation of this fic and the encouragement of its writer, in this fic and beyond. _


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